What Came From the Stars Read Online Free Page A
Author: Gary D. Schmidt
of hours,” Tommy said.
“Not bad for a couple of hours.”
“It’ll do.” Tommy walked over to the largest worn patch of blue floral linoleum over the worn patch of red floral linoleum. He crouched down and picked at it. “Do you ever wonder what the floor would look like if we pulled all of this up?”
His father licked the chocolate icing from his fingers.
“Do you?”
His father shook his head.
Tommy looked down at the patches. “I do,” he said.
His father licked his fingers again, then looked out the window to the sea. “Your mother used to wonder,” he said quietly. Then he went back to icing the leaning birthday cake.
“Should we try it?”
His father shrugged. He frosted the birthday cake.
It was always like that. One mention of Tommy’s mother and there was nothing left to say.
Tommy went upstairs. He lived in the loft that spanned the whole house and which had been his parents’ studio before he was born, his mother painting portraits at one end and his father painting seascapes at the other. Tommy wasn’t sure how they both fit, since even though a loft sounds like a whole lot of room, Tommy could only stand up in the very middle of it—otherwise the ceiling came down to knee height over the floor. There was, however, a window at the south end that looked out over Plymouth, and a window at the north end that looked up the coast as it bent outward. So with the windows open, it was always cool in summer. And with the chimney squatting smack-dab in the center of the loft, it was always warm in winter—until the fire went down. After that, Tommy could see his breath shimmer in the freezing air.
And always, always, always there was the sound of the waves, the restless back-and-forth of the ocean, filling the harbor and emptying it, filling the harbor and emptying it.
That night, Tommy and Patty and their father cooked out on the dune. They heated up the clam chowder from the day before and dripped maple syrup on cornbread and boiled new carrots from their garden and poured out the first of the cider. Then Tommy’s father and sister ran back into the house and they brought out the leaning chocolate frosted chocolate birthday cake, stopping every few steps to pick up the one candle still lit and to light those blown out by the sea breeze. It was getting colder and darker, and already the first star was showing over the water—but Tommy didn’t care. It was his twelfth birthday. He had been alive for four thousand three hundred and eighty-three days. He had been alive with his mother for four thousand one hundred and twenty-six of them. He had been alive without his mother for two hundred and fifty-seven of them.
In the dark, the chain around his neck glowed softly beneath his shirt.
His father and Patty got the leaning chocolate frosted chocolate birthday cake to the firepit with some of the candles still lit. Patty had brought plates and forks and the Birthday Cake Knife, which Tommy took.
“Wait a minute!” said his father. “We have to sing before you cut it.”
So he did. “Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!” he sang, and Patty swayed side to side with the rhythm, smiling, and the sea breeze stroked the blue-gold-red embers bright.
And with that wind in his face, and looking at the sea, and feeling the light fall on him from the first star, and with those he loved beside him, and his mother gone, gone, Tommy felt the chain warm, and he began to sing too. He sang of parting and of grief. He sang of friends and loved ones who must leave him. He sang of the loneliness of one star without another. He sang in a high keen, as high-pitched as wind, and he felt the melody twine with the strange starlight, and heard the sound of Hreth rising out of the ocean, and he sang of that too.
And when he finished, he looked at his father and at Patty, who stared at him in amazement and wonder. And he saw in his sister’s eyes that she was a little afraid.
“What?” he
“Not bad for a couple of hours.”
“It’ll do.” Tommy walked over to the largest worn patch of blue floral linoleum over the worn patch of red floral linoleum. He crouched down and picked at it. “Do you ever wonder what the floor would look like if we pulled all of this up?”
His father licked the chocolate icing from his fingers.
“Do you?”
His father shook his head.
Tommy looked down at the patches. “I do,” he said.
His father licked his fingers again, then looked out the window to the sea. “Your mother used to wonder,” he said quietly. Then he went back to icing the leaning birthday cake.
“Should we try it?”
His father shrugged. He frosted the birthday cake.
It was always like that. One mention of Tommy’s mother and there was nothing left to say.
Tommy went upstairs. He lived in the loft that spanned the whole house and which had been his parents’ studio before he was born, his mother painting portraits at one end and his father painting seascapes at the other. Tommy wasn’t sure how they both fit, since even though a loft sounds like a whole lot of room, Tommy could only stand up in the very middle of it—otherwise the ceiling came down to knee height over the floor. There was, however, a window at the south end that looked out over Plymouth, and a window at the north end that looked up the coast as it bent outward. So with the windows open, it was always cool in summer. And with the chimney squatting smack-dab in the center of the loft, it was always warm in winter—until the fire went down. After that, Tommy could see his breath shimmer in the freezing air.
And always, always, always there was the sound of the waves, the restless back-and-forth of the ocean, filling the harbor and emptying it, filling the harbor and emptying it.
That night, Tommy and Patty and their father cooked out on the dune. They heated up the clam chowder from the day before and dripped maple syrup on cornbread and boiled new carrots from their garden and poured out the first of the cider. Then Tommy’s father and sister ran back into the house and they brought out the leaning chocolate frosted chocolate birthday cake, stopping every few steps to pick up the one candle still lit and to light those blown out by the sea breeze. It was getting colder and darker, and already the first star was showing over the water—but Tommy didn’t care. It was his twelfth birthday. He had been alive for four thousand three hundred and eighty-three days. He had been alive with his mother for four thousand one hundred and twenty-six of them. He had been alive without his mother for two hundred and fifty-seven of them.
In the dark, the chain around his neck glowed softly beneath his shirt.
His father and Patty got the leaning chocolate frosted chocolate birthday cake to the firepit with some of the candles still lit. Patty had brought plates and forks and the Birthday Cake Knife, which Tommy took.
“Wait a minute!” said his father. “We have to sing before you cut it.”
So he did. “Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you!” he sang, and Patty swayed side to side with the rhythm, smiling, and the sea breeze stroked the blue-gold-red embers bright.
And with that wind in his face, and looking at the sea, and feeling the light fall on him from the first star, and with those he loved beside him, and his mother gone, gone, Tommy felt the chain warm, and he began to sing too. He sang of parting and of grief. He sang of friends and loved ones who must leave him. He sang of the loneliness of one star without another. He sang in a high keen, as high-pitched as wind, and he felt the melody twine with the strange starlight, and heard the sound of Hreth rising out of the ocean, and he sang of that too.
And when he finished, he looked at his father and at Patty, who stared at him in amazement and wonder. And he saw in his sister’s eyes that she was a little afraid.
“What?” he